Beauté Dessous
by chisai ichi
Summary: Jean Canard was a young man who became a lonely beast due to a spell going horribly wrong. He stayed in his castle away from anyone else, till the day he met Belle and realised how lonely he really was.
1. Chapter 1

"Nobody lives there," a boy – his name was Jacques - whispered to his younger sister – Jeanette - as they peered at an old castle through the window of their carriage.

"Really?" Jeanette whispered back. She released an involuntary shiver which caused goose bumps to scatter up her skin. She hugged her shawl closer to her body.

Jacques wanted to say something else, but he waited until the castle had passed their sights. He was afraid to speak with such a haunted place nearby. "Long ago there was somebody there."

"Who?"

Jacques looked down as he said his next words. "La bête. _The beast_."

Jeanette gasped, ducking her head beneath her shawl. She came back up, realizing that she had something to say, too. "I remember Tatie Bernadette talking about him. And she had said something about him . . . something that didn't sound right. Something about him eating children . . . did he?"

"For every meal of the day," Jacques said. If he was aware of his sister turning pale, he didn't show it. He was quite calm himself.

"Why?"

"Well, he was one hungry beast I guess. But he must have become really full because he stopped doing it."

Jeanette was relieved at this. "He learned his lesson then?"

Jacques shook his head. "He kept the kids he hadn't eaten. He put them in a cage, barely bigger than your own body. And he fed them one meal a day, if you could call it a meal."

He paused, which frustrated his sister. "What did he make them eat?" she asked hurriedly.

"Crumbs of bread."

Jeanette's eyes lit up in horror. "How evil! How horrible! How-"

"-Untrue," the coachman said. He had overheard the entire conversation and at first, he found the fables of the little boy entertaining. But it had gone too far. He needed to set the story straight about 'the beast'. He pulled over at the side of the road.

"Why have you stopped?" Jacques asked him.

The coachman thought about this. He couldn't just say he wanted to tell a story. He needed another reason to go with it. He found it. "I believe your maman will not be at home until quite late. Therefore, it would be unwise for me to take you home now – when there won't be anybody to supervise you. Therefore, we will pass time with a story."

"No more stories," Jeanette groaned. "I hear so many of those from my brother and none of them end well."

"Oh, but this one does," the coachman said.

"Well then, what is it about?" Jacques asked.

"The very person you were talking about just before."

"What? The beast?" Jeanette cried. "Why, after what I heard, no story about him could possibly end well!"

"You only say that because you don't know the truth about him," the coachman said simply.

"Oh, she does. I told her the truth about him before – when we were passing his castle," Jacques said.

The coachman shook his head. "That was not the truth. The beast did not eat children. He did not go anywhere near them. He lived alone in his castle. He had since the passing of his parents. He was but sixteen when he saw them for the last time. Could you imagine it children? Being all alone – no brother or sister to play with. No parents to teach you the ways of life. I don't think you could."

"You're lying!" Jacques yelled. "How would you know the truth anyway?"

"How?" the coachman repeated. "Well, he was my father. I keep his tale close to my heart and I tell it – to children like yourselves. To anybody really. So that they know that beneath his ugliness, his beastly exterior, there was a man. A man who made some errors early in his life."

"Eating children?" Jeanette whispered.

"What? No, no, child, I thought I already said no to that. He would not hurt a fly this man. In fact, he didn't always look like a beast."

"How did he look before then?"

"Well . . . he looked quite the opposite. He had more manly features."

"So he had two eyes, two ears, one nose and one mouth?" Jeanette asked.

The coachman looked at her and then at the boy, as if to ask, _what have you been teaching your sister?_ Jacques looked back puzzled.

The coachman sighed at his failed attempt to communicate with the boy. He focused back on Jeanette. "Beasts have those features as well."

"Then what makes beasts different from us?" Jacques asked.

"Well, they're a lot hairier," the coachman said. "And they have claws. And their ears are higher up. And they have fangs for teeth. And . . . they have tails."

The two siblings looked at their own behinds and tried to imagine tails sprouting from there. They shook the thoughts out of their minds. That was too scary to think about for another second.

"If he wasn't always a beast, then how did he become one?" Jacques asked.

"I was waiting for that question," the coachman said. "I guess it's time to start the story . . . from the moment when _la bête_ was sixteen and his parents were just about to depart for Paris."

The children nodded intently.

"They were going to leave him by himself for the first time in his life. They knew he would be fine because he was old enough to take care of himself . . . for ever. They knew they weren't coming back. But he had no idea."

"You never told us his name," Jeanette whispered.

"His name?" the coachman repeated. "Oh yes . . . his name was Jean Canard of Canard Castle, Beauté Dessous . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

In the village of Beauté Dessous, where the cottages were alike and in close range of one another, Canard Castle stood out. It was tall – you would be able to see the whole village from its top floor. And it was beautiful – you could not ride passed it and not stare wide-mouthed. It spanned many hectares and was a wide distance from the village.

Its front garden was bare except for a smooth lawn and a large rose bush. These roses were a mystery to Jean Canard, the sixteen year old occupant of Canard Castle. He had been told by his father that they never grew nor ever died. They had dropped down from Heaven and had taken residence of the Castle as of five generations ago. Jean Canard wasn't sure if this were true, but couldn't think of any other reason for the mystery of the roses.

The day Jean's parents announced their news, he had been outside in the garden, running the back of his hand along one rose's petal. There was no real reason why he liked doing this. He only knew that the touch was comforting.

"We are leaving for Paris tomorrow night," Monsieur Canard said slowly. He had been pausing between each word to see how Jean was digesting his words. Jean looked indifferent as far as he could tell. "You would be wondering why and therefore I'll explain the situation so that it is clearer. The situation is as follows: Your grand-pére has fallen ill. It happened overnight. That is why we have only informed you today. Your mére and I discussed the idea of you coming along with us and we've settled with knowing that you're a mature boy who is capable of handling responsibility. Your responsibility here is to look after the house and make sure nothing happens to it while we are gone. Some of the most precious objects of the world live in this house and it would be a devastation to see them lost or destroyed."

He paused and scrunched his forehead in thought. Before further delay he said, "I think that is all."

Madame Canard stroked the back of her son's head and whispered, "What your pére really wanted to add was that he will miss you very much . . . and so will I."

Jean did not say anything. He had recommenced stroking the rose.

"Well, we must start packing, mustn't we, Yves?" Madame Canard was looking at her husband, who nodded and started walking back to the Castle. Madame Canard looked at Jean, who had turned his position so that she could only see his back. She sighed before following her husband.

Jean's hand followed down to the rose's stem until he felt a small pain stab into his hand and jolted it back. He looked at the trickling blood before wiping it on the side of his pants. He wondered why roses had thorns. Why in so much beauty there could be a fault.

"It's not a fault," he muttered to himself. "The thorn is its protection. Everybody needs protection. To stop others from ever getting too close to them."

He started walking towards the door, but halted to a stop when he saw his mother looking through the window. She looked concerned. He cursed at his carelessness. Next time he would keep his thoughts inside his head.

But there wasn't going to be a next time. At least not for a while. His parents hadn't told him how long they would be staying in Paris. He now realised that it could be anything between a week and twenty years. It didn't cross his mind that they may never come back.

_They've been gone before,_ Jean said to himself.

Gone for an hour, that is. And that was when they needed to go to the marketplace – a destination that was a five minute carriage ride away.

"Well, then," Jean said, "I will just imagine it as an extended hour and I will just imagine them being five minutes away."

He looked up at where his mother had been looking worried at him. She quickly pushed the curtain forward so he could no longer see her. And, thankfully, she could no longer see him.

The next day came. Monsieur and Madame Canard were standing a few steps away from their carriage. Jean was standing with them, focusing on the lawn. But what was there to focus on? It's perfection. Jean could not see one patch of unruly grass. This pleased him. It helped him face his parents' departure. He looked up with new confidence.

"I will see you soon," he told them.

Madame Canard looked uneasily at her husband. A look that had passed without Jean noticing.

"Until then," Monsieur Canard said to his son, "I have something I want to give you. Something that was once mine, but will now be passed onto you. It was passed onto me from my own father when I was your age."

He pulled out a small gold crusted mirror from his breast pocket and gave it to Jean, who looked curiously at it. After thorough inspection, he saw no dent, no tarnishing of colour, no dust on it whatsoever. He was satisfied with it and decided to look into his reflection, after all that was the purpose of it. He lowered his brows in confusion. Instead of seeing himself, he saw the rosebushes in the garden.

He turned to his father, "Wh-Why is it showing me roses?"

Monsieur Canard peered at the mirror and said, "No, it is showing _you_, Jean, in front of the Castle".

Jean looked at the mirror and now saw the roses breaking into two and falling onto the lawn. "Pére, what kind of a mirror is this? It won't show me myself."

Monsieur Canard looked back into the mirror and smiled. "For a moment I had forgotten the purpose of the mirror. I haven't used it in a long time. But I remember it now. It doesn't show us what we convince ourselves it will show us. That is, a reflection of our appearances. It reflects to us how we feel, deep inside. It shows us our emotions. Our emotions taking on the form of images. Your image was of roses. Mine was of you in front of the Castle."

"What is the point of it showing our, our _emotions_?" Jean asked. "At least when it shows us ourselves we can see what we need to fix about our appearance. How can I fix my imperfections if I can't see them?"

"Your imperfections do not come from the outside, they come from within," Monsieur Canard explained. "Jean, you must not look at imperfections as bad things. You mustn't see them as things you must fix."

Jean didn't know what his father was talking about and no longer was interested in finding out. He took the mirror back and decided that he would leave it in the spare room where he never went to. He would rather want to destroy it, but could not for his father's sake.

"Monsieur, Madame, I cannot have your trip to Paris be delayed for any longer. It will be a tiresome journey and the sooner we leave, the better chance you have of arriving there before dusk," the coachman said, breaking the silence.

Monsieur Canard sighed. He looked at his son one last time. "Au Revoir, Jean."

Madame Canard took longer to leave. Jean could see her hesitating. He could tell she didn't want to go. He wanted to tell her that he needed her to stay. But his words were held back in his throat. He could not release them. So he had to stand there, silent. He had to pretend that his parents' departure wasn't affecting him.

"Oh Jean!" his mother said, not being able to stand his silence any longer. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder.

He distracted himself from her hug by thinking about the roses in the garden . . . their deep red colour . . . their perfect shape . . . their immortality . . . eternal youth. He thought about them even after his mother released her arms from his neck and wiped away her tears. Even after she took her place in the carriage next to her husband. Even after the carriage took off and became a part of the distance. Even after he went back inside and sat at the kitchen table. Even after he ate his dinner and left the washing up to the maids. Even after he went into his bed.

He stopped thinking about the roses when he started dreaming. He stopped that when he realised he was dreaming of his parents. He woke up in a sweat and decided that dreaming wasn't safe.

He felt someone fumbling with his door knob and held his sheets tight to his face like a little boy would. He put them back down when he realised it was only one of the maids. "Is everything alright, Monsieur Canard?" she asked him.

"Of course," he snapped. "Now let me be!"

She didn't need another warning. After she left, he turned onto his side. And thought. About the only comforting thing in his life at that moment.

The roses. Or, _his_ roses, as he preferred calling them now that his parents were gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

An entire year passed without the return of Jean's parents. While the servants of Canard Castle were no longer expecting the return to occur, Jean still lingered in hope. He spent much of days looking out the window in his bedroom, where he looked out into his window expectantly. He never saw anything more than the occasional carriage or person on foot.

Today he could add another sight to that list. Rain. Fat drops of it thinned out as they trailed down the window. They reminded him of tears. How could the rain cry so freely and Jean could not? He looked away. He walked across the room to his chair. He sat and hung his head down. His hair fell over his face and he pulled it back. He closed his eyes and wondered if he could stay uninterrupted like this for ever.

"Somebody is here to see you, Monsieur," the butler said, peering through the door.

Jean composed himself and nodded to the man. "I will be out in a second."

The butler bowed and went back out.

A minute later Jean was walking down the spiral staircase and looking down as he went. He kept his gaze on the ground even as he was about to extend his hand to shake the one of his guest. Before he did this, he glanced at their hand and at once noticed it was wrinkly. He kept his hand at his side.

His eyes ran up from the hand to the dirty rags covering his guest's body and the dirt caking her face. He was so taken by the ugliness before him that he didn't notice the rose in her hand until a while later. His face softened when he saw it. He wanted to be closer to that rose, to smell it and hold it. But to do that, he would have to walk further towards _her_. And he couldn't bring himself to do that.

"You have noticed the rain outside, I am sure. And you must be a gentleman, I am also sure of that. You may have guessed that an elderly citizen like me needs shelter. Just for the night. I'm sure it would be no problem to you," the old woman said. She twirled the rose in her hand. "I offer you a rose in exchange for your kindness."

Jean looked away. "I cannot take your offer . . . I cannot let you inside my home."

"Why not, sir?"

"I just can't," Jean said and tried to lead her back outside, but she would not budge.

"Is it because of how I look? Because I am not beautiful, nor rich, nor young?" the old woman asked. "Well, let me tell you, young man, that it is not right of you to judge me on these premises. You do not know what kind of a person I am yet. You would only know if you allowed yourself the chance to get to know me . . ."

She started spinning. Faster and faster. Jean moved backwards, scared that she would knock into him. Then he rubbed at his eyes because he did not trust that what he was seeing was actually happening. After he had stopped rubbing his eyes, the woman stopped spinning. Or maybe she had never been spinning. Whatever had happened, she was no longer the woman he thought he had seen. She was now younger, with flowing blonde hair, a silky gown and a wand in one hand. The other hand still clung to the rose. Jean did not know what was more mesmerising. Her or the rose.

"Do you think I am beautiful?" she asked him.

He nodded.

"You did not think I was beautiful before," she said, shaking her head. "You didn't want me in your castle. Even though I was poor and needed shelter."

What did she mean? She didn't look poor. But if she needed shelter . . .

"That old beggar woman from before was me," she added. "I may look different, but I am still the same person inside."

"No," Jean shook his head. "That woman wasn't . . . it was a trick of my eyes."

The beautiful woman shook her head. "It wasn't a trick of your eyes. It was me. I am a transition fairy. I can change into any object or person that I want to."

"What?"

"Your father sent me here from Heaven," the fairy explained. "That is where he now lives. Along with your mother. They wanted to teach you a lesson about beauty, but never knew how to. I am here now, finishing what they wanted to start."

"What are you saying? My parents are in Paris, not in Heaven," Jean said.

The transition fairy tried to put her hand on the young man's shoulder, but he didn't let her. He turned around so that she couldn't see his despondent face.

"They love you very much and always will," the transition fairy said. "And now, I must cast the spell I was given by my fairy master. This spell will show you that beauty is not seen with your eyes, but felt with your heart."

She paused. "Please hold the rose. It is the only way it will work."

Jean sighed and held onto the rose. He did not hold it the way he normally did, with gentle care. He held it tightly and didn't wince once as he felt it prick into his skin. He was distracted by thought of his beloved parents.

Meanwhile, the transition fairy began her spell:

"_Teach him to love, _

_Teach him to know, _

_That the nature of true beauty, _

_Isn't as he thought it so. _

_Help him realise that anyone can see a rose,_

_And think it is beauty's key. _

_But it takes someone rare, _

_To question what they see. _

_Show him the place, _

_Where a person's soul lies. _

_Teach him that love is found here, _

_And that this is written in the skies._

_Tell him to be the be-eest that he can be, _

_And do not ever change this. _

_After will he succeed, _

_In living long in bliss._

The transition fairy finished her spell and smiled at her effort. She looked at Jean to see if the changes had taken place. She gasped.

"What is it?" Jean panicked. He was unaware of what had happened to him. Anyone else could see that he was larger, hairier and uglier. Not to mention he had sprouted a tail.

"Uh-oh," the transition fairy whispered. Her hands were now on her head. "What have I done?"

"What do you mean?" Jean asked, putting his own hands to his head. And that was when he noticed that his hair felt thicker. He traced his hands all over his face and panicked. "What-what happened to my face?"

"I-I'll have to go back to my master and ask what happened and-d-don't worry, I'll be back . . . soon." The transition fairy spoke her words quickly and then somehow escaped before Jean could make the connection that it was she who had put this spell on him. In her place there was silver glitter. It was quite beautiful, but surprisingly, Jean didn't even notice its presence. He stormed into the corridor where there was a wall mirror. He looked into it and felt a jolt of shock release from him. He turned away from the mirror, revolted by his new appearance.

He stomped upstairs to his room, telling himself with every step that he was dreaming. He would soon wake up. This assurance slowed him down. He remembered all his other nightmares and how real they had felt. This time he was going to be in control. He wasn't going to yell, but laugh in the dream's face. Or play along with it. Yes, that was what he was going to do.

He opened his door and accepted the sight of the transition fairy. She was with a short, old man. He had a long beard that dragged on the ground and he was wearing a black cloak. He had parchment in one hand and a wand in the other.

Jean looked at his own hand and saw that the rose was still in it. He also noticed his dried blood. He still did not feel the pain of the thorn.

"Hello, Jean," the long bearded man said, offering his hand.

Jean did not shake it.

"I don't know why the spell did not turn out the way it was supposed to," the transition fairy rushed on to say to Long Beard. "I said every word correctly."

"Are you sure?" Long Beard asked her. When the transition fairy nodded, he turned back to Jean. "Well, you seem quite calm about the situation, Jean. As long as you stay calm, I think I can get a straight answer out of you. Do you remember anything about the spell Sandine said, which didn't sound quite right?"

"You know," Jean said, "now that I think about it, she may have said "beast" in the spell. Unless that word is a part of the spell?"

"No it isn't," Long Beard said, scratching the top of his beard. He looked at Sandine. "You didn't say "beast" in the spell did you? Even after we had recited the spell together forty times."

Jean let out a low whistle. "Forty times?"

Sandine and Long Beard ignored him. The former said, "I didn't say "beast"."

"Well, Jean, you said you heard it. Just tell us the entire line it was in," said the latter.

Jean shook his head.

"Excuse me?" Long Beard said in disbelief.

"This has been a long dream," Jean said and let out a yawn to prove his point. Except yawning would be better used for someone going to sleep, not wanting to wake up from one. Jean did not make the connection, yet neither did Long Beard or Sandine. Jean continued, "Don't you think it's time you two left and I went back to the non-magical realm?"

"What is he saying?" Sandine asked Long Beard.  
"This isn't a dream," Long Beard said to Jean. "What makes you say it is?"

Jean smiled. "Well, I do not see too many transition fairies and long beards, ahem fairy masters, in the daytime. And I've never turned into a beast before, except in my dreams. And I have turned into a beast in two dreams so far. That includes this one. The other one I had when I was just five years of age."

"I guess it's hard to accept things that we are not used to happening in real life. And that is why you are associating this experience with a dream. I'm sorry, Jean, but the truth of the matter is this. You are not dreaming. You have actually turned into a beast. And you will continue to be a beast until we find out where Sandine went wrong with her spell."

"I didn't go wrong with the spell," Sandine said. "I remembered every word correctly. Would you like me to recite it again?"

Jean sighed. "No! Just leave. Or I shall have to call my butler to remove you himself."

"We are not going anywhere," Long Beard said. "You will realise soon enough that this is for the best."

"For the be-eest," Sandine repeated.

"For the beast? Well, he won't be one once we've figured out how he became one."

"No, I said for the be-eest," Sandine said. "Just like you did."

"Are you trying to tell me that you were trying to say "best"?" Long Beard asked.

Sandine nodded. "Except I wasn't trying to say it, I did say it."

"It came out like beast, but that is beside the point. I've figured out the reason why Jean has turned into a beast. Now, wait a moment while I look through my papers for the solution."

He flipped through his parchment before stopping at something that could he helpful to Jean.

"What does it say?" Sandine asked.

Long Beard's slight smile of hope turned into an obvious frown. "Well, there isn't an immediate solution. That is, Jean won't turn back into a human anytime soon."

"Why not?" Sandine asked.

"Well, there are many factors. Firstly, the spell that you used, isn't exactly a spell. But because you used the word "beast" in it, it acted as The Beast Transforming spell. And since that spell is powerful, any reversal of it would be hard. But there are two solutions here."

He paused, looking down at the parchment. "The first one is reciting The Beast Reversal spell on Jean, but that would be near impossible since only one fairy master in all of Heaven knew that spell and nobody knows what happened to him."

"Who is this very fairy master whom we are speaking of?" Sandine asked.

"Why don't you get on with it?" Jean asked.

"Very well," Long Beard nodded to Jean, and silently apologised to Sandine. "The second solution is for the beast to fall in love with a human. After this happens, his human form will come back to him."

Sandine smiled. "That won't be too hard. Jean already knows how to fall in love since I recited the spell on him."

Long Beard shook his head. "Sandine, the spell did not work the way it was supposed to because it was not said the way it was supposed to. Jean is still the same man he was prior to the spell, he just looks different. It will be hard for him to fall in love. Besides, who would take him now that he is a beast?"

"Well, nobody is as superficial as that man," Sandine said.

"You would be surprised," Long Beard said and then he disappeared.

Sandine looked at Jean one last time. "Farewell. And I hope you will forgive me for what I have done."

"You have done nothing, but delayed me from waking up," Jean said. "But yes, farewell."

Jean fell asleep shortly after that and woke up the next morning, unaware that he was still a beast until he passed the corridor mirror. He had been holding a large platter of food and every bit of it dropped to the floor when he saw his reflection.

From that day onwards, he locked himself in his room. He did not let any of the servants see him, for fear that they wouldn't believe he was Jean Canard (despite his voice sounding the same). Whenever they went up to give him his breakfast, lunch or dinner, he told them to leave the platter outside his room and knock his door once, before leaving. The servants never questioned his motives. They went on with their everyday lives and he went on with his.

Jean spent the next three years in this isolation, watching the world from his window. He still had the rose which Sandine had given him. It rested on his bedside table. He had tried to summon the transition fairy twice now, to turn him back into a man, but she never came. He was now certain he was going to be a beast for the rest of his life.

But will come the day when he realises that a person can never be too certain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_**Disclaimer**: _I don't own most of the character Belle and I should have said earlier that I don't own most of the character Jean. And some of the events that take place, well I don't own them either. And there could be more to say, but maybe you'd rather read the story.

"Belle! Belle is here!" Elisabert cried, rushing from the window to the door.

Her older sister Marie was already there. With Elisabert breathing heavily behind her shoulder, she opened the door.

Belle, with a small book in her hand as always, walked passed them.

Elisabert looked at Marie, who said loudly, "Don't sisters deserve a hello from their eldest?"

Belle stopped at the door to their bed chamber. Quietly, she spoke: "Hello."

"And?"

"And . . . how do you do?"

"Swell," Marie said before hastily adding, "Have you spoken to David and Laurie?"

Elisabert walked over to Belle and took her hand. "Please tell us everything."

"What is there to say? Weren't it obvious that David would want to dance with you at t'night's ball, Marie? And you Elisabert, Laurie said you were more beautiful than the most beautiful rose he had seen. I'm sure that those words could be taken as a yes. Yes, you two are lucky girls t'night."

She slipped her hand from Elisabert's grip and tugged at the door knob, but it would not budge. She tried again, only to reach the same conclusion.

"How about you, eldest. Have you received any news from Michel?" Marie asked.

Belle did not say anything. Elisabert wrapped her arms around her neck and said, "Do tell."

Belle moved away from Elisabert and sat on a chair. She opened her book and commenced reading.

"_Please,_" Elisabert said, throwing herself at Belle's feet. "Please, please, please. We must know what happened!"

Marie came up behind Belle and snatched her book from her hands. "You have no choice but to speak now."

Belle fixed her eyes on the ceiling, while Marie and Elisabert continued to wait. Patience did not belong to them – neither did obstinacy. Those distinctly belonged to Belle. And yet, here they were now, imitating their sister.

"Oh eldest," Marie said, taking Belle's hair in her hands and stroking it. "Does he not want to marry you anymore?"

Belle turned to her. "I wish that were the case."

"Why?" Elisabert asked.

Belle looked at her lap. "I don't love him, sisters."

"But he is the richest man in all of Beauté Dessous," Elisabert said. "If you marry him, you will be the luckiest girl, do you know that? Golden necklaces, lace to go with all your dresses, all the best silk. Such a beautiful life it will be. Oh, I envy your future!"

"What is there to envy?" Belle cried. "What is beauty when the man you are marrying is the ugliest, most despicable man!"

"He is not despicable," Marie said. "He is a respectable gentleman."

"Then why don't you marry him?" Belle pounced at her, her patience and contained manner escaping. "I know why you won't. Because you have David. And what a fine looking and romantic gentleman he is. He isn't as rich as Michel, but you don't mind that. I'm sure, if Michel were to want you as his betrothed, you would not accept!"

"A man is interested in _you_, Belle, and you are not content? You should be grateful. If you decline this offer, when will another one come for you? Besides, eldest, I don't mean to be unpleasant, but you were never a beauty."

Belle stood up. "I see truth in what you're saying, Marie. I know I am ugly, that I do not deserve my name. And that I would never deserve such handsome men like your suitors. But I'd rather be alone, than marry _him_! You do not understand. He is not made for me. We do not see eye to eye. If I were to marry him, he would make me into his princess and then expect for me to be satisfied. He cannot offer me love. He can offer me stability, but I don't want that! If I were to have love, I would not need anything else. I mean that."

The door opened and all three girls looked up. It was Monsieur Dedans – their father.

"Papa!" Elisabert ran over to him and wrapped her arms around him. This was followed by kisses on both cheeks and a look into his leather bag.

"Bert, you will find no gift for you there," Monsieur Dedans said.

Elisabert looked up at him. "Where will I find my gift then?"

Monsieur Dedans placed his hand into his breast pocket and took out a small piece of parchment. "Here you go, my young Bert."

She squealed in delight and then kissed him once again. "My own personal invitation to my very first ball!"

Monsieur Dedans laughed and then looked at Marie. She held his hand while she kissed his cheeks.

"Marie," he said and looked into his bag. He took out her invitation and closed it in her hand.

"Thank you, pére," she said and walked into her bedchamber, the same one that Belle could not open before.

Belle had been watching her all this time, mystified. How did those girls lock her out of their bedchamber and yet, be able to open it themselves? There was no key to the door. How else could they do it?

"I have something for you as well, Belle," Monsieur Dedans said.

She looked at him, forgetting all about her previous thought. "I'm sorry, sir, but I will not be attending the ball t'night."

Monsieur Dedans ignored her and took off his hat. He turned it over as he bowed and placed inside was an invitation.

Belle sighed and reluctantly took it. She read it over, while Monsieur Dedans looked for a hint on her face to how she was feeling. She looked up at him and shook her head.

"Why not, Belle?"

"If I go, then Michel will ask for my hand in marriage. And with everybody watching, it would be hard to refuse him."

"I know you do not love him, Belle, but he will give you a secure future."

"Do not tell me that you are going to force me to marry him," Belle said.

"I would never force anything upon you," Monsieur Dedans said. "But I would also not like you to live the rest of your life in regret."

Belle closed her eyes. "Sir, I will marry him, you know I will. But it's only because you say this is the right thing to do and your judgment means more to be than anything else."

"Thank you, dear," Monsieur Dedans said and kissed her head. "I only ask this of you because I want you to have the best life you possibly can. And with him, you will. I assure you.

Now, I think it is time we prepared for tonight's ball. I will wear my second best suit – my best one will be kept safe until the wedding. And you, my dear, shall wear your most elegant gown. And do not worry about what you will wear on your wedding day. I've already spoken with Michel and he has told me that the best tailor in the village will prepare your wedding gown."

"Sir, you said my most elegant gown, but I only have one gown," Belle said. "And it is so worn out and the least bit elegant . . . I don't think it would be appropriate."

"The red gown?" Monsieur Dedans asked and Belle nodded. "I think it would do fine. Hmm, but if we could just add a rose to your hair . . . a beautiful rose. I saw one as well. On my way to the village of Tille, I saw this large house and in its garden, there were the most beautiful roses. If I just went there and picked one out for you, then . . . then . . ."

"Then maybe I could look beautiful?" Belle asked. Her eyes were hopeful.

"You are already beautiful," Monsieur Dedans said and gave her another kiss before he walked to the door. He turned to Belle. "I will be back before the ball."

Belle bowed. "Until then."

"Until then," Monsieur Dedans agreed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It had happened so quickly. Jean had been looking at the roses from his top window and was interrupted by three knocks at the door – it was time for his lunch. As the usual custom, he didn't bring it in until he heard footsteps descending. He was not gone long. But somehow, when he sat back down with his platter on his knee, something unusual was happening outside.

There was an old man hunched over his roses. Yet, there was something about him that was not quite . . . human, perhaps? After all, if he were human he would not have been able to appear so quickly. So this left another possibility. Could he have come from Heaven? Another fairy, possibly? The one who could break his spell.

"BUTLER!" Jean boomed, his excitement getting the better of him. When he did not hear any ascending footsteps, he tried again. "BUTLER!"

At the door, a voice trembled, "A-at your service."

"There is a man in the garden," Jean said. "Bring him to me at once."

Jean looked back out the window and several whiles lately, saw the butler take the old man by the hands and drag him to the house. The man tried to resist, but the butler was too strong for him.

Jean looked away and realised that he would need to cover himself because in order to let the old man in, the butler would have to see Jean first.

Jean threw a large white sheet over his head which covered his whole body. It was a practical sheet – allowed him to see everything around him without everything being able to see him. He sat on his stool and waited.

"Monsieur Canard?" It was the butler at the door.

"Bring him in," Jean said.

The butler came in, still clutching the old man who looked positively afraid. The butler looked around. "Where are you, Monsieur Canard?"

"Over here," Jean answered.

The butler traced his voice and jumped. "S-sir."

"Now leave the gentleman and I in peace!" Jean barked.

The butler nodded and shut the door behind him.

"Good afternoon, erm fairy of Heaven. But you mustn't be any fairy. You must be a fairy master! The one who will break my spell, is that correct?" Jean said.

The old man did not say anything.

"You must be here to restore me back to . . . my human self," Jean continued. "Now, excuse me, while I take this sheet off me. It is starting to irritate me."

Jean took off the sheet. The old man clasped his hand over his mouth and moved backwards, losing his balance and falling to the ground. Jean walked towards him to help him up, but the old man stopped him. "Please, don't hurt me. I-I didn't know anybody lived in this house. The-the rose was for my daughter. She-she is attending a ball tonight. I thought a rose would look like nice in her hair."

"What are you saying?" Jean asked. "Aren't you a fairy master?"

"Uh-I . . . I-I'm sorry, sir. I do not know what that is."

"How can that be?" Jean asked, slumping back on his stool. "How can that be?"

"Sir, I . . . I have children back at home. I have a ball I must attend. My daughter will be engaged tonight and I cannot miss the occasion."

"What were you doing in my garden?" Jean asked him.

"I . . ." the old man looked down.

"You were looking at my roses . . . my immortal roses. What were you going to do once you were finished looking?"

The old man did not speak.

"Were you going to take one . . . were . . . what is that peeking out of your pocket? No . . . No . . . NO!"

The old man clutched onto the nearest thing – a bedpost – and prayed the beast wouldn't hurt him. He looked at the rose in his pocket, then took it out. He held it out to the beast. "He-here."

Jean snatched the rose out of his hand and snapped it in half.

"W-why did you do that?" the old man asked.

"What is that rose to me now? It belonged in the garden with the others. It would not survive long without them. Roses gain strength from each other. A rose, all alone, is meaningless."

"That-that's not true-"

"Silence! I am trying to think what I will do with you."

The old man looked horrified and started shaking. "No-no-no-"

"I said silence!"

The old man continued to shake. "Please-"

"BUTLER!"

"I have three daughters-"

Jean threw the sheet over himself just as the butler came inside.

"Where shall I take him?" the butler asked, holding the old man tightly.

"To the guest bedroom."

"Very well."

"Lock the door behind you. Do not let him escape."

The butler bowed and then went out with the frightened old man.

Jean threw off the sheet, but it had caught onto his claw. He dragged his claw through it and watched one sheet, become two. But he was not satisfied. He continued to rip the sheets until they became little remnants of them.

And then – then he sat on his stool and looked out his window. As if nothing had happened in between now and looking out the window the last time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The three Dedans girls, with their velvet gowns and hair in ringlets, sat around the main room. While Belle read, Elisabert tapped her feet impatiently on the floor. Then Marie, not wanting to wait any longer, stood up.

"We better leave without him then," she said.

"We should wait until half the hour has passed," Belle said, turning a page of her book.

"The ball will be under way by then!" Elisabert complained. "I say we leave now with the carriage. Papa will meet us there with his horse. And we won't need to leave a note for him either. Make haste you two. I do not want to arrive late to my first ball."

"Geoffrey. The horse has a name. It's Geoffrey," Belle said, putting down her book, lest Elisabert would say something back. But Elisabert did not utter a word and only looked at Belle for a moment. Then she scanned the room in case she had forgotten to do something.

When she was sure she was ready she said to the others, "Make haste! Make haste!"

Marie, who had been observing Elisabert's excited manner, suddenly nodded and scrambled their coats off the rack. Elisabert snatched hers from Marie, but Belle shook her head.

"Aren't you coming with us?" Marie asked her.

"I'll wait for father," Belle said. "We'll meet you there."

"Suit yourself," Marie said and she went out with Elisabert.

Just as Belle was about to re-open her book, Marie came back inside.

"What is it?" Belle asked.

"Belle, I . . . father's horse is here without . . . father," Marie said. "What does this mean?"

"Where is he?" Belle asked, putting her book on the table.

"Who?"

"Geoffrey!"

"He's . . . outside. Just here. But that's not important. What do we do about fath-"

"Bring Geoffrey in here. Take Elisabert to the ball. I'll find father."

"Are you – sure?"

Belle nodded.

A moment later, Marie brought Geoffrey into the house and left him with Belle.

Belle stood up and walked over to him. She ran her fingers through his mane and then stooped a little so that she was at eye-level with him. In that brief moment, a message passed from Belle's to Geoffrey's eyes. It said, take me to father. With a slight nod, Geoffrey confirmed that he knew what she was trying to tell him.

"Good boy," Belle said as she stepped onto his back. "We can not waste anymore time.

Let's go."

"I will not kill him," Jean said to himself. "I could never do that. A human's life is precious. It only comes once. But what about a rose's life? That, too, is precious. Does it not only come once as well? But that man certainly did not think of that when he ended the life of one of my beloved roses. He was only thinking of his daughter when he took it. And once that daughter of his satisfied her vanity, what would be of the rose? It would rot on a table in her chamber. Nobody would be thinking of its feelings.

"I must teach that old man to respect beauty. The only thing worth respecting. And then there is that thing they call love. I could never respect it. Love dies away with people. But beauty – beauty lives on. So long as people don't destroy it.

"And people won't destroy it if they're taught the right things. And the right thing is respecting eternal beauty and throwing away the notion of love. But how do I do it?

"He spoke about his daughters. What if I never let him see them again? Keep him imprisoned in this castle? Take from him those he loves the most. Teach him to become like me. With no love in his heart."

His eyes were looking out the window, but since he started talking he had stopped focusing on what was happening. Now that he had stopped talking, he sharpened his focus and saw her. A young woman stepping off a horse. She was wearing a red velvet evening gown with similar slippers peeking out from underneath. The hood of her cape stopped him from seeing the full of her hair, but he did see a hint of brown. As for her face, he could not see it as well as he'd like to have. His eyes followed her steps to the entrance of the house. When she disappeared through the door, he looked away. He had to see those features more closely.

"Show her the way upstairs," he yelled down to the butler. "But do not come up yourself."

Jean went back into his room and looked for the white cloth, before seeing it on the floor in its tiny shreds. He looked for another option, but heard her voice before he could find it.

"Where is my father?" she asked.

He turned around and saw her figure in the doorway. He was expecting her beauty to put him in a trance, but this didn't happen because there was no beauty. Sure, her face was youthful, but there was nothing striking in it. She did not have a defined jaw, or sparkling eyes, or curved lips, or a quaint figure. She was a plain girl. Disappointment surged onto his own features. So much that he completely forgot her question.

She sighed, aware of his discontent and the reason for it. "I asked you where my father was."

"Your father?"

"Yes, my father. Where did you put him?"

"You do not mean that old man who trespassed my castle, do you?"

The girl looked at the ground. "I'm sure his actions were done with the utmost sincerity."

"And such a plain girl like yourself cannot speak plain English? I find it hard to believe," Jean said.

"I'm very sorry, sir," she replied, bowing. "I misjudged you for an intelligent man. But if you insist, then I will stoop down my intelligence to suit yours."

"No need, I understand your baffling language perfectly," Jean said. "But I must say that if you fancy yourself to be intelligent, then you do not have the wrong judgment of me, but of _yourself_. I was bred by a scholar, my father. And you were bred by a . . . an ignorant man, your own father."

"I'm sorry, but you do not know my father," the girl said. "And by the words you have spoken, I see you do not know me. I wonder, do you know anybody? Are you even aware that you do not quite look human?"

Jean ignored her. "All I want to know is your name and you can leave."

"My name is Belle and I would have to see my father first before I could leave."

Jean smiled at her. "I wonder, did your father name you?"

Belle did not say anything.

"No wonder that man doesn't understand beauty," Jean said. "No educated man would name their doomed to be ugly daughter, _Belle_."

"And you, beast, are you one to talk about beauty?" Belle asked. "No, don't answer that question. I've found a better one for you. Curiosity makes me wonder what _you_ call beauty?"

"Very well," Jean said. He walked towards her and took her arm and entwined it with his. She did not even flinch. She let him lead her out of the room and down the stairs. Jean had forgotten the possibility of the butler seeing him. And when he opened the door to the garden outside, he forgot that he could be seen by passing carriages and people on foot. He seemed to forget about everything except the answer to Belle's question.

"Beauty has many forms," Jean said while they cut cross the grass. "And here is beauty in its purest form. Observe the roses."

Belle looked from Jean to where his eyes were fixated and saw a row of roses. She nodded politely and said, "They are beautiful."

Jean made a gruff noise with mouth and took his arm away from Belle's. He stepped over to the roses and stroked the petal of one with his thumb. "Their touch is similar to that of your gown and as is their colour."

Belle looked down at her red velvet gown and touched its hem. An involuntary shiver ran up her body. "I've never liked the touch of velvet."

Jean wasn't listening. He was still stroking the rose and at the same time realising why he had mistaken Belle for being beautiful. It was what she was wearing. It had transformed her into a counterfeit rose.

"Beauty is temporary," Belle said, stepping over to Jean. She touched the rose he was stroking. "This rose will die and along with it, its beauty."

"You are wrong there," Jean said. "This rose is immortal. It came from Heaven. It will live long after you and I."

"This rose may be immortal," Belle said, "But how about the million or so roses which are not? They will shrivel up and die."

"And in their place a new rose will bloom," Jean countered. He looked at Belle, but she was not looking back as he had hoped. He took her chin in the cusp of his hand and turned it to face him. "Belle, beauty could never be temporary. It continues to live generation after generation. But love is temporary. It's an emotion only foolish humans have."

"Why do you say that?"

Jean took his hand away from underneath Belle's chin. He turned away from her. "When you love somebody, you make a big risk. You cannot know what will happen to the person you love or how long they will love you. And when they leave or stop loving you, it hurts you inside. It's a hurt worse than pricking your finger with a thorn. That feeling of hurt is not worth risking for temporary love."

"Have you ever loved someone? Do you have parents?" Belle asked.

Jean let out a shaky breath before calmly replying, "I don't need parents. And I don't need love in my life."

"But you must have had parents. And you must have loved somebody."

Jean shook his head. "I stand alone. I do not need anybody. You can never trust anyone as you would trust yourself. Nor can you rely on anybody else. But I will always trust and rely on beauty. It will never deceive me."

"Maybe it already has," Belle said, walking away from him.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Upstairs to my father."

"You can not see him," Jean said. "He is my property now."

"Excuse me?"

"I will not repeat myself," Jean said. "All you must know is that he made a mistake and he will be punished."

At the door of the castle, Belle turned back, horrified. "What will you do to him?"

"I will teach him what I have taught myself over the years. That beauty lives on long after humans and love dies long before."

"Oh your mind is so confused," Belle said. "You think you are so right about all this, but you're not. And now you want to muddle my dear father's thoughts. Please just leave him alone."

"I can not do that."

"And if I were to take his place?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well," Belle said, "I mean what if I was to be your property instead of him?"

"No," Jean said.

Belle stood in the way of the door. "Please, as you can see, I . . . I'm the one who needs teaching. I'm the one who is convinced that _love_ is eternal, when I should really be thinking that _beauty_ is. I need to learn a lesson. Not father . . . he is too old. But I am still young and my mind is not set like his is. Take me and free him."

Jean's expression turned from suspicious into one of consideration. After a short while he said, "You have not fooled me with your sudden change of attitude. But not to worry because you are right, your mind is not set the way your father's is. It will be easier to teach you, fresh with new knowledge each day, than your father. I will free him."

"I must see him now though," Belle said, fumbling with the knob of the door.

Jean took her hands softly in his, not wanting to dig his claws into her flesh. "I can not let you do that. You will never see him again. Therefore cherish your last memory of him for as long as possible. It will be the last picture of him that you will paint in your mind."


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

"Mademoiselle?" a maid said, opening the door so that it was slightly ajar. Her head stuck out cautiously.

Belle was sitting on her bed with her back turned to the maid. She did not change her position or in the least, speak a word.

"Jean is requesting for you to come down to dinner. I have a lovely evening gown to replace your worn out one. And I'll be able to do up those ringlets of yours."

"I will not be coming down," Belle said quietly. "If I can I'll spend the rest of my life up here."

The maid walked cautiously into the room.

"Oh miss, please, I canst tell Jean that," she said. She walked over to Belle's bed and sat down. Quietly she said, "I canst tell him anything, for that matter. He forbids me from being in the same room as him these days. It is the same with all the other servants."

Belle's ears perked up. She finally turned around. "Do you even know what he looks like?"

"Why, of course," the maid said. "He is a handsome young gentleman of eighteen – or was it nineteen?"

Belle let out a small laugh. "Oh you have it all wrong! That man out there – Jean, was it? – he is a beast!"

"Well, I must admit, he does have a temper. But to call him a _beast_, is highly disrespectful of you. He has let you in his home – a home much better than your previous one, I assume – and he has set up for you a lovely bedchamber. It is much better than the ones us servants have. Will you at least have the courtesy of joining him for dinner?"

"How could I eat dinner with the be-man who has taken my father away from me!" Belle cried. She started punching her bed and wouldn't stop until the maid pulled her arms behind her back.

"Now, madam, you must not act so unlady-like! You may have given up your father, but it was for a beautiful life."

"Oh, he has brainwashed you as well! He has brainwashed everybody in this house to think like him. I do not care about luxury or beauty or any such thing! The only reason why I agreed to live in this house is because I feared for my father's safety. Knowing that he is no longer in the beast-Jean's clutches is the only good thing to come out of this. And here I am now. Forced to eat along with a … with Jean against my own will. And were he only a beast on the outside, maybe I could tolerate him. But he is an ugly man without and within!"

"Speak ill of him once more and I will tie your hands behind your back and leave it that way for the rest of your life!

"Hmm. Since I hear no word of complaint from you, I will let go of your arms. Now, wear your gown hastily and after, I will fix that mop of hair of yours and maybe – if you behave well throughout – I will give you some rouge to fix those sunken cheeks."

The glass doors of the dining room carelessly opened as Belle stepped down from them. Jean neglected his food and watched her walk over to the opposite side of the large dining table. She noisily pushed her chair back and then placed herself in it, before letting the foot of the chair screech against the ground as she pushed it closer to the table. Then she looked down at the food in front of her and spent a good few moments thinking. What she was thinking about, Jean knew not.

He cleared his throat. "It is for eating."

Belle looked up at him. Her expression was clearly of annoyance, but she didn't speak. She turned back to her food and picked up the fork in her right hand and the knife in her left.

"Your fork is actually to be placed in your left hand and your knife in your right hand," Jean said.

Belle dropped the two pieces of cutlery back to the sides of her plate and picked up the leg of chicken in the plate with her hands.

"What are you doing?" Jean demanded.

With a look of innocence Belle answered, "Why, Jean dear, did you not say that this – this lovely food in front of me – was for eating? Yes, I do believe you said that. And now, you see, I am putting your words into good use."

"Well, I see Belle that you have fine listening skills … but unfortunately they are not the _best_. In order for that to be, you will have to listen to everything I say – not just parts."

"And which part did I not listen to?" Belle asked.

"The part where I said that you use a fork for your left hand and a knife for your right."

"Oh, I did listen to that part," Belle said nodding.

"So, why didn't you put that part into good use?"

"You do not give up, do you? I chose not to put it into good use because I found that this time I could put my own words into good use."

"I am lost this time," Jean said. "Which words are we talking about here?"

"The words which I uttered in my mind," Belle said, looking straight into his eyes.

Jean looked back, puzzled.

"I feel as if you deserve an apology, dear Jean. I mean, here you were sharing all your thoughts with me and I … I did not have the courtesy to do the same in return. I should explain myself therefore. Jean, I am not one to share my thoughts because sometimes they deserve to be kept within. Can you understand this?"

"No I …" Jean trailed off. "I can't understand it all. I have never had thoughts that I felt I needed to suppress. If I believe something strongly, then I must let others around me know it."

"Do you mean to say that you strongly believe that I should use a fork and knife?"

"I mean that I strongly believe that I should let you know what I think. And if you want to take it or not, then that is up to you."

"What a contradiction you gave there! Why just before you were _clearly_ trying to command me to use a fork and knife."

Jean stood up. "Well know this, Belle. You can do as you please from now on and I won't comment on any of it. If you like, then you can have dinner by yourself."

Belle stood up as well. "There is one thing I want more than anything else in the world."

"Speak it then if you must."

"I want to leave!"

Jean shook his head. "That is one thing I could never grant you."

"Why not?"

"Because … Because I have to teach you a lesson in beauty and then …"

"And then?" Belle asked, making her way over to him. "What could you want with me after that?"

Jean looked down. "I just cannot you leave."

"I have never met someone so unreasonable in my life. And you call yourself a scholar's son."

"Don't speak of my father!" Jean spat.

Belle was immediately quiet. She searched his face for a sign to how he was feeling. His father was … he had to be … he had to have … passed away.

"I am sorry," Belle said. "I did not know … I mean I should have guessed before …"

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Please, sir, you do not need me to stay here with you."

"But I do," Jean whispered and bit on his lip to stop tears from overwhelming his face.

"What was that?" Belle asked.

Jean moved away from her. He walked to the glass doors. Before exiting he muttered, "I'll be in the library."

"I did not know you had a library," Belle's eyes lit up. "Sir, please, may I join you?"

"If you please."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"I have never seen so many books in my life," Belle said, clearly impressed by what she was seeing. They were in Jean's library. It was a large room with ten, long wooden bookshelves lined up side by side. Books of almost every kind filled every space. Belle walked over to the bookshelf in the farthest corner and commenced scanning the spines of the books. "I don't have the faintest idea of which to read first."

"Let me make your decision a lot easier," Jean said, leaning next to her. "All the books along this shelf are Ancient Greek tragedies. I do not have much patience for those…do you?"

"I don't know," Belle said. "I've never read one of those. Hmm…King Oedipus. I'm curious about its contents."

"Well, it's a tragedy, Belle," Jean said. "You can be sure that somebody will die. You look at me puzzled. Very well, I'll give you a clue: read the title again."

Belle looked back at the spine. "King-" She stopped while her mouth still hung open. Then, once she realised what the best was implying, it formed into a grimace. "Very funny. I almost fell for it as well. I'll make sure to be more alert next time."

"You're very alert as it is," Jean said.

Belle moved onto the next shelf of books and Jean followed from behind. She picked up a book and read out a loud its title: "_On Real Beauty_ by Jean Canard. You wrote this?"

"I wrote all six books on that shelf," Jean said, picking out another one. "If you are going to read them, you should start with this one. It is the introduction to the other books."

Belle put back the book she had been holding and took the one from Jean's hand. She opened it the first written page. "Real beauty is everywhere. One only has to look around them to see the evidence of this. However, I will supply an example anyway. Roses. Perfection can be seen from one's every angle…"

Noticing Belle's pause, Jean asked, "What is it?"

"It's just…real beauty. I mean, roses no doubt possess beauty, but…_real_ beauty. Real beauty is not something that can be easily defined," Belle said.

Jean walked away from her, and continued to walk, until he was at the other side of the room. With his back facing her, he said, "Belle, I need to make something clear to you. Defining real beauty is possibly the easiest thing a person could do. Well, that is if their minds work correctly."

"You mean to tell me that my mind doesn't work correctly?" Belle said, obviously defensive about this. She tensely put her arms around her chest and looked at Jean with an expression which dared him to continue.

"Well," Jean said, gulping in some air, "I thought we both agreed you were misled about real beauty…about-"

"The truth works against you," Belle said, confident that she had a better memory than him. "I never said anything about being misled about real beauty, only about the importance of beauty compared with love."

"I remember that conversation of ours," Jean said. "And I must apologise. I haven't been following up on my teaching ever since it. Never to fear, after this trip around the library, I'll move straight onto educating you."

"Why?" Belle asked.

"What a question to ask? Why? Weren't you the one who wanted to be educated?"

"Why is real beauty easy to define?"

"Why, why did you neglect to finish your sentence before? Oh, it doesn't matter," Jean said. He finally turned around and pointed to the bookshelf where his books were. "The answer is in one of the six books."

"I want to hear it from you," Belle said.

"Very well," Jean said. However, he didn't continue.

"I thought it was easy," Belle said.

"It is," Jean said. Then, more to himself, "I just need time."

Belle did not grant him the extra time he needed. She walked right passed him to the door. Before he could ask why she was leaving, she left. He looked at the door, his mouth open, but sound refusing to come out. After many moments passed, he clamped shut his mouth and walked out of the library himself. It was then, when he turned around to look one last time at the array of books, he realised that one was missing. Belle had taken his leather bound book on Beauty.

Belle was sitting cross-legged on her bed with Jean's book in front of her. She had been looking through it for five minutes with no success. Pages were filled with text on roses, roses and more roses, but as for why roses were an example of true beauty, there was no reason. Except for the supposedly obvious one, which was, _roses are an example of true beauty because they are beautiful. Nothing more needs to be said. _Such a misinterpretation! Such a waste of paper on a book which proved to be nothing but false!

"Such a fool he is," Belle said to herself. She closed the book and placed it at the far end of her bed. This way she couldn't see it. Oh yes she could. She reached for it and then placed it on the floor. No, that wouldn't do. She slid it underneath her bed. That was when it happened. The book knocked into something else. Curious about what else was under there, Belle looked down and felt for an object underneath her bed. Once she could feel it, she took it in her hand and brought it up to her eyes.

"What is this?" she pondered out loud.

In her hands was a mirror. Yet, when she had brought it up to her eyes, it wasn't her face she saw staring back at her. It was Jean whom she saw. He was outside in his beloved garden, running the back of his hand along the rose petals. For one second – barely anything more – he took his eyes from those roses, and stared back at Belle. It was hard to describe that glint his eye had in that second. In a way, it was a glint of hope. Somehow, it convinced Belle that Jean needed her help. He needed somebody to show him that he didn't need to be such a cold, isolated man. Also, that there was more beauty in people than there was in all the roses you could conjure.

Belle placed the mirror face down on her bedside table. She headed for the door, but just as she was about to exit, she remembered the book. She took it from the ground and then exited.

Down the stairs she went – no, floated – before halting at the foot of them. A figure stood at the door, a most unwelcomed figure.

"Whatever are you doing here?" Belle asked, panicking.

"Do not worry," the figure said, mistaking her panic as concern for his safety. "I've stabbed that bloody beast in the arm. Now, I'm not an evil person, and that is why I only aimed for his arm. He is bleeding heavily, yes, but it won't be enough to kill him. It will only be enough to ensure us to escape in plenty of time. Your things must be upstairs, go get them."

"Where is he?"

Belle did not wait for an answer. She tried to move to the dining room, but the figure caught her by the waist. His grasp on her was tight. She could not get away.

"Do not worry about him," the figure said. "You're coming with me. Let us go!"

"No," Belle said, but it was clearly no use. He was far too strong. "I will get my things then."

This change of tone slipped from the figure's attention. He was only relieved, the least bit suspicious.

"I'll give you five minutes, Belle," the figure said.

As Belle climbed back up those stairs, she said softly, "Oh, Michel, you are the biggest fool of them all."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

If there was one useful thing that Jean had told Belle, it was the secret passage to the dining room. Now, as the narrator, I should have already mentioned it myself, but I hadn't anticipated its use in this story. But now, it seems, it serves one of the biggest uses of all.

A trapdoor, hidden well by a long rug, lied in Jean's chamber. Belle went down it hurriedly, and in this heart pounding state, forgot to put everything back as they were. Oh, but it didn't really matter, since those who weren't supposed to know about it didn't end up finding out about it anyway.

During Jean's explanation of the passage, he had forgotten to mention how much dust circulated in it. Well, Belle had found out the hard way. As she went down it, holding onto the rope which was being pulled from the top (do not ask how this rope contraption worked. I myself never found out), she coughed. Yes, she coughed a mighty lot. But then, to her relief, she reached the ground of the passage. Placed where her feet now stood, was another trapdoor. Belle crept down and opened it. She fell straight onto the dining table. Luckily, there was nothing on it, so she didn't crash into glass or something equally hazardous. Also luckily, the table was sturdy, so it didn't cave in on her.

"Well, that wasn't so bad. Maybe one of these I'll do it again," Belle smiled to herself. She moved off the table, and, just as she did, she noticed her knees. Small bursts of blood from it slid down her legs. Yet she had no time to worry about her minor injuries. Not when Jean had been stabbed in the shoulder.

She looked around. She did not see him anywhere. Then the sliding doors of the dining rooms were thrust open and there he stood. Just as Belle was about to run to him with relief, she realised something. That man was not Jean. That man was Michel.

"Such racket," Michel muttered, before coming to his own realisation. "Belle? Wh-You are supposed to be upstairs, packing your things. What on earth are you doing in here?"

"I…I…" Belle did not know what to say. She settled for looking down.

"Come on. We need to get out of here," Michel said. He walked over to Belle and tugged at her arm, expecting it to be enough to get her moving. She didn't budge, of course. She was not going to leave anytime soon. "Belle, get moving. We do not have all day. Not when you will be married to me tomorrow."

"No, I won't," Belle said, pulling her hand firmly away from his grasp. "I am staying here."

"No, you're not," Michel said with clenched teeth. "You are coming with me. You will do as I say because I am just about your husband now. Do you understand?"

Belle shook her head. "You cannot force me into leaving."

"Oh, won't your father be happy to know his daughter doesn't want to see him again," Michel said, shaking his head.

"This hasn't anything to do with my father," Belle said, yet she couldn't help feeling disappointed in herself. What was wrong with her? Didn't she want to see her father? Even if it meant marrying Michel? She sunk down on a chair and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. She was not ready to make a decision yet.

"Get up!" Michel said, but did not wait for her to do it on her own accord. He snatched her wrist with a force that she could not resist, and dragged her with him out of the dining room.

Except he didn't make it out of the dining room. Jean was standing in his way.

"Oh, it's the beast," Michel muttered to the suddenly hopeful Belle. He looked back at Jean. "Get out of my way."

"Let her go first," Jean said, nodding to Belle.

"She belongs to me," Michel said. "She is my possession. And so you see, I cannot let her go."

"No, I don't belong to you," Belle said and as quickly as the words had escaped her mouth, Michel struck her. She did not dare breathe another word, neither did she dare look anywhere but at the ground.

"How forgetful you can be sometimes, Belle," Michel said, shaking his head. "That's why I had to punish you, because then you would remember where you are and who it is you're dealing with."

He allowed himself a chuckle, which was a mistake on his behalf. It was one thing to strike a woman and then act chauvinistic about it. It was another to laugh afterwards. Laughing was what triggered Jean to scratch him straight down the middle of his face, from forehead to chin.

"And how forgetful you can be, sir," Jean said, shaking his head. "That is why_ you_ need to be punished, because then _you _can remember where _you_ are and who it is _you're_ dealing with."

Michel dropped Belle's hand and charged at the beast. In his pocket was a knife – not quite big in size, yet as for how sharp it is – all other knives couldn't compare to it. He aimed for Jean's shoulder, but Jean dodged the knife just in time. He dodged several other aims before punching Michel straight in the stomach. Michel flew backwards into the side of the table.

Belle winced and so did Jean.

"Is he alright?" Belle asked and Jean bit his lip, somehow hoping he was.

They both cautiously walked over to him. Blood was dripping out of his mouth, as well as from the back of his head. Yet, he was still alive. He staggered upright and walked back to Jean, each step closer causing Jean to hope that Michel would collapse soon. Michel didn't. He aimed a hook punch to the left side of Jean's face and didn't miss. The second punch landed on the right side of Jean's face. A third punch landed right in Jean's stomach. Yet Michel didn't stop there. He held Jean by the back of his shirt and was punching him again and again.

"Stop! Stop!" Belle screamed, but Michel chose to ignore her.

Think, Belle, she told herself. You're in a kitchen. What could you use to hurt him with? She was thinking of the cutlery in the drawers, but something caught her eye before she moved over to them. Michel's knife. It had slid out of his hand when Jean had wounded him in the stomach. Belle kneeled down and crawled over to it. She snatched it in her hand and then stood up again. Michel hadn't noticed a thing. She crept up behind him, the knife shaking in her hand, and then-

Then she didn't see what happened for she had shut her eyes at that moment. When she opened them again, there were two men in front of her, lying lifeless on the floor. She sunk to where Jean was lying. She held him to her chest and let her tears run into his hair. She held him even tighter, afraid if she let go, he would be gone from her for ever.

"Jean," she whispered into his hair, kissing it as she spoke. "Oh, why did this have to happen? If only we had never met. Then you wouldn't be dead, and I wouldn't be here, grieving about your death."

She stroked his hair for a while, finding it as the only comfort for her. Then she spoke again. "And do you know what? I think I love you. I'm in love with a man I didn't even have the proper chance to love. A man I once couldn't think of being able to love. Oh, Jean, I'm as baffled as you would be if you were still alive. I just don't understand it. You're such a fool of a man. And now I'm your female equal, for there is no woman who is as more of a fool than me. Only a fool would love you."

She allowed herself a chuckle, which turned into a hiccough. She removed Jean from her embrace and put his head back onto the floor. "Oh, but what a happy fool I was for a while."

She sighed and stood up, dusting off the leftover lint from her dress. She looked back once more at Jean – a look which lingered on for she wanted the memory of her one beloved to last in her mind for ever.

It was over. She closed the sliding doors behind her and headed upstairs. Her feet were no longer floating. They now felt heavy, as if they were supporting all the world's weight. Well, that was how things felt to be.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

**_Disclaimer:_** I do not own the _Guinness Book of Records_.

When Jean opened his eyes, he wished he had kept them shut. It didn't make a difference whether his eyes were open or shut, for things were just as pitch black in reality as they were in his mind. Yes, it was well into the night.

So, the reason why he wished he had kept his eyes shut had nothing to do with what he saw. They had to do with how he felt. Somehow, closing his eyes made him ignore the pain which ripped through his whole body. Somehow, it made him feel less alone. Now, this wasn't a feeling he could explain, so it would be pointless to ask him to.

Yet, Jean left his eyes open. He turned to his side and winced as he did. A thousand knives felt as if they were stabbing into him. Oh, he had to do it. He had to shut his eyes – and tightly. While he did, he slowly made his way up. The word slowly needs to be empahasised here, for he did take his time. He could have even gone into the Guinness Book of Records, if such a thing had existed in his time.

Somehow, Jean made his way into a chair, but he could not go any further than that. Oh, how hopeless this situation seemed to make him feel.

"I am ruined," Jean whispered into the darkness. "Not only do I feel paralyzed, but I have a corpse in my dining room. And I'm sure Belle has abandoned me. She never wanted to be here in the first place. She always longed to be back with her father. Oh, she could never have been happy here anyway. Not with somebody like me. All I was to her was a beast deprived of love. And I thought beauty could fill up my life. Oh and how I convinced myself that it was filling up my life. I didn't know how deprived I really was, until _she_ came along. _She_ filled up my life."

Jean shut his eyes, hoping he could fall asleep. Every time he tried to, he saw Belle. Belle with her sharp wit and plain face. Belle who filled up his life.

The doors slid open and Jean almost jolted out of his seat. Oh, the pain this swift movement of his caused! It was so unbearable that he wasn't concerned with who was at the door. Until they made themselves known.

"Goodbye Jean, I am leaving now. I'll always love you."

Jean almost fell off his chair. He grabbed on it tightly, praying that it really was her voice he had heard. "Belle?"

He heard her shudder. "J-Jean?"

"Yes, it's me," he said. "I thought you had left."

"I was about to," Belle admitted. "Jean, where are you? It's so dark, I can barely see anything. Let me switch on the light."

"No, don't," Jean said.

"Why not?" Belle asked softly.

"Because of how I look," Jean said.

"Of all people, I thought you'd be the least to care about how you looked," Belle chuckled.

"I used to care," Jean said. "It wasn't so long ago either. In fact, I didn't stop caring about such trivial things until today. Today I thought I was about to lose you. Now, that was a thought that scared me. More than anything else ever has. I love you Belle and I'm going to take you in my arms and never let you go."

Belle started laughing, but something in Jean's voice, stopped her. He sounded positively earnest. "Jean?"

He had stood up and was slowly making his way over to her. She heard his small footsteps on the ground, but barely. She smiled. Nobody had ever made her feel like the most special person in the world before Jean. He made his last footstep toward her and as he did, she extended her arm. He took her hand in his, but as soon as he did, she jolted her hand back. This was not his hand. She looked up at him. Barely visible were the features on his face, but it was enough. This wasn't Jean.

"Belle?"

"Who are you?" she demanded. "How can you sound like Jean and yet not look like him?"

"What are you talking about? I'm Jean. Nothing's changed about me."

Belle switched on the light and gasped.

"What is it?" Jean asked and started touching his face. "Oh-Oh, I-I'm me again. Belle, I'm me again!"

Belle looked blankly back at him.

"Oh Belle, I was not born a beast," Jean explained. "I only became one because-because…"

Because of a transition fairy named Sandine. How was he to explain that one?

"Because?"

"You wouldn't understand," Jean said, shaking his head.

"No, you're wrong Jean, I would understand. Nothing you say could surprise me. Not after I have fallen in love with a beast and have had him turned into somebody else. No, I'm afraid you're wrong. So tell me."

So began Jean's tale of Sandine and Long Beard and the events prior to Belle's arrival into his life. Belle did not once look bewildered. She held onto his every word, having the utmost faith in them. Then when he was finished, she pulled him closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. His hands held the small of her back and were intent on never letting go.

Belle left his shoulder and looked up to his face. She tilted her head as she pulled closer into him and then placed her lips on his. Then she rested her nose on his.

They stood like this for a considerable length of time before Belle pulled away. "What do we do about Michel?"

"Hmm," Jean said, looking over at him. "Well, this is what I think we should do. I'll deal with him, while you can wear your best evening gown and meet me in here in an hour. How does that sound?"

"Jean, is it awful not to be the least bit sorry for what I did?" Belle asked, nodding to Michel.

"I don't know, love. All I know is that he is dead now and we cannot bring his life back."

"Oh yes you can."

Jean looked at Belle. "Did you say that? I mean, it didn't sound like you, and yet I thought we were alone."

"Don't worry, you were alone," the voice returned. "I just arrived now. By the way, I'm down here."

Jean and Belle looked around the floor and then, to their astonishment, Michel was rising to his feet.

"Don't be alarmed," he said – bare in mind, he said this in a female's voice. "Michel's not alive just yet. I've just entered his body. I'm Doris, the Entrance Fairy. Must I give you an introduction to what I do? You know, I pretty much already summed it up."

"Jean," Belle began, "do you know this…fairy?"

Jean shook his head.

"Now, I'm going to bring Michel back to life," Doris told them. "Now there is no need to look so fretful. I will take him back to the village. In fact, I will find him a suitable wife so he will have no need to try and pursue you again, Belle. How is that for a plan?"

"Are fairies going to keep coming in and out of our house, Jean?" Belle asked, once the fairy had left.

"You know, I cannot doubt it," Jean admitted. "But not to worry, because they are very helpful. Wouldn't you agree?"

Belle shrugged. "Maybe."

Jean took her hands and placed one on his shoulder, the other enveloped in his own hand. She placed his free hand on her back and off they went, swaying to the music of their beating hearts. So many things about them were synchronised. The beating of their hearts, their passionate wits and above all, their love for each other.

"Jean?"

He looked up at her, taking away a strand of hair from her face. "Yes?"

"Are roses really an example of true beauty?"

Jean shook his head. "Superficial beauty, yes. But true beauty…true beauty could only be summed up in one word."

"What word is that?"

"Belle," Jean said and he kissed her full on the lips. "Any other questions?"

"Yes, one other," Belle said. "Jean, is beauty more important than love?"

"Beauty is as equally important as love," Jean said.

"How is that?"

"Well, I just said that beauty was you, Belle, and as for love, it is how I feel about you. So they are equally important for you and how I feel about you are equally important."

Belle smiled, while Jean continued. "You know what I find funny? I had set out to teach you what I thought was the right way of thinking, but it turned out, you did all of the teaching."

"I learnt too, Jean."

"Oh yeah, and what did you learn?"

"I learnt how to love a beast."

"Just like how I learnt to love beauty."

FINI


End file.
